average wednesday nights

it's just a darkness, like the sky
but reflecting sparks from stars
so far away they're probably dead already
now that we can see them
what's left of them
through all the lights we made to replace them

it's just a darkness, snaking
through the core of the city
luring wolves from the wild upstream --
one moment they're in wilderness
the next the james macdonald roars overhead
it must be such a shock

this inky darkness, home of beavers
and seagulls and the sewage we forgot
slides beneath us, so far beneath
and outward past our farthest sight
it curves and is lost to the wildness we left behind

looking out at this darkness, we dangle our legs
while cars fly by on the bridge below
just engine sounds and the comings and goings
of headlights, then tail lights, then only street lights
we're not sure where they're going, only
that they are oblivious to our presence up there
perched on railway ties, and the only parts of ourselves
visible are the bottoms of our shoes

it's better they don't know we're there
it's what separates us --
and the act of something wonderful --
from the mundane rigours of their average wednesday nights